


On Bread Alone

by Justgot1



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Baking, Bread, Cooking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:00:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justgot1/pseuds/Justgot1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“When it’s ready…” Sherlock’s cheek rubbed lightly on the hair above John’s ear and his breath brushed the shell of it “…it should spring back from your touch.” Gently, Sherlock sank his finger into the dough, just past the first knuckle. John licked his lips. He watched the divot fill itself again. “Just like living flesh.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Bread Alone

**Author's Note:**

> [Agameofscones](http://archiveofourown.org/users/orithea/pseuds/agameofscones) was offering 3-sentence fics to anyone who offered a prompt, so I sent the following:
> 
> "Sherlock is an artisan bread baker who seduces John by showing him how to bake bread. Think of the pottery wheel scene from Ghost but with bread dough. And kneading. So ... much ... kneading ..."
> 
> She tossed out [this enticing little beginning.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/874493/chapters/1680544)
> 
> I decided to pick up that baton and run with it.

Their fingers tangled in the sticky mass and Sherlock’s long hands guided John’s to scoop it from the sides, fold it, press down into the warm sticky center. Sherlock’s palms covered the back of John’s hands, long slim fingers over short strong ones, pressing into the heart of the dough, over and again. Little by little the dough began to hang together, to form a smooth, slightly tacky ball.

"The strands of gluten are strengthening, getting into line," Sherlock murmured into John’s left ear. “Through kneading we give the dough a structure from which to build the bread." The tacky ball was becoming pliant beneath their hands.

The kneading changed, became rhythmic. Guided by Sherlock’s body against John’s back, they rocked their torsos forward, heel of their palms pushing the dough into itself, then rocking back as they folded the dough over, giving it a little quarter turn.  It was almost hypnotic, John thought, rocking forward into the dough, rocking back and folding, forward and back, forward and back, for what could have been three minutes or thirty, he’d lost track.

The nature of the motion was not lost on him.

The dough smelled rich, the sort of smell that is a taste, that is very nearly a solid thing in the mouth. John breathed deeply.

"What’s beautiful about bread,” Sherlock said in a low, meditative tone John had never heard him use before, “is that it’s alive. Yeast is wild, it’s everywhere, on our skin, in the air. We capture it for our use, the way we’ve been doing for thousands of years. A starter is just food in a bowl to coax the wild yeast to stay. It is a living culture; you feed it, water it, give it air and just the right amount of warmth, and you can take what you need from it and it will renew itself. There are bakeries that have been taking from the same mother dough for two hundred years.” A note of envy and amazement came into Sherlock’s voice. “Imagine all the hands that have touched it, how much knowledge it has in it.”

The dough was now glossy under John’s hands, and body-warm. Sherlock caressed it into a perfect half-sphere. “When it’s ready…” Sherlock’s cheek rubbed lightly on the hair above John’s ear and his breath brushed the shell of it “…it should spring back from your touch.” Gently, Sherlock sank his finger into the dough, just past the first knuckle. John licked his lips. He watched the divot fill itself again. “Just like living flesh.”

"What," John croaked, embarrassed to find that he needed to clear his throat to continue. “What now?"

"Now," Sherlock slid the round onto the well-worn baking stone but didn’t step back, remained lightly pressed to John’s back, hands on the edge of the table on either side of John’s hips. “It goes somewhere dark, and warm."

John turned in the enclosure of Sherlock’s arms.  He raised his chin until the tip of his nose barely grazed the side of Sherlock’s jaw. He smelled like food. John’s mouth watered. "That sounds like a very, very good idea," he whispered.

Sherlock’s smile rose slowly.

[On Tumblr](http://justgot1.tumblr.com/post/55134705885)

 


End file.
